


any day now, any day now

by saltstreets



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-27 15:37:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5054326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/pseuds/saltstreets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Miro wonders what he could possibly have done in a past life to deserve being haunted by Thomas Müller.</p>
            </blockquote>





	any day now, any day now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raumdeuter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raumdeuter/gifts).



> this is the first time I've ever participated in a fic exchange! hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing, recip! :D

 

 

Sometimes, Miro wonders what he could possibly have done in a past life to deserve being haunted by Thomas Müller.

Well, technically _he_ isn’t being haunted by Thomas. The Allianz Arena is. Miro just happens to be the first person in about about fifty years who can actually _see_ Thomas. Apparently he’s “sensitive” or something.

It doesn’t make a lot of sense to Miro. All he knows is that two days after he’d transferred from Bremen he had walked out of the dressing room to see a man a little younger than himself lounging against the wall. Miro had said hello, politely, and had been treated to the admittedly-amusing spectacle of the man starting so violently at being addressed that he’d genuinely fallen over.

Then he had floated himself back into a standing position, and it had been Miro’s knees nearly giving out shock.

 

 

 

He had never been a footballer, Thomas later explained, after Miro had gotten over the initial disbelief that yes, Thomas was a ghost. He’d always wanted to play, but life had taken him elsewhere and he’d been content just to be a dedicated follower of Bayern Munich until he’d died in a car accident –the responsibility for which he claimed complete innocence- in the sixties.

When in the sixties? Miro had asked, trying to pin down what age Thomas –or the remnant of Thomas- was. But he’d only gotten an airy wave of the hand in response: oh, maybe 1964. Or something. Not terribly important.

It was difficult to tell without Thomas giving him a straight answer. Miro had vaguely assumed that as a ghost, Thomas would be stuck in the ways of whatever time he’d died, but Thomas was suspiciously modern. When Miro brings up the discrepancy Thomas just looks at him incredulously.

“I’m not a _fossil,_ just because I’m dead doesn’t mean I can’t watch television and get caught up on the latest. C’mon.”

Miro’s just glad that Thomas hadn’t died wearing anything more remarkable than jeans and a slightly out-dated jumper. He doesn’t think he’d be able to handle being haunted by a ghost in lederhosen.

 

In any case, and Thomas had been a Bayern supporter. An extremely passionate Bayern supporter. And he couldn’t give a satisfactory explanation as to how it had happened, but somehow he’d managed to make the decision to stick around with Bayern even after the fact of his life, and here he was: slightly see-through and floating, chatty and twenty-something and with free season tickets to Bayern home games for the rest of foreseeable eternity.

He likes to wander around the pitch during the matches. Thomas is insubstantial most of the time and only goes solid when he wants to, so it’s easy for him to get as close as he pleases to the play. Miro has to get used to the sight of Thomas being _right there_ all the time, but after he does it become almost normal to receive a pass that’s travelled through his torso, or Thomas positioning himself directly where in the goal he thinks Miro should shoot.

 

Thomas takes a liking to Miro and starts following him around specifically rather than just drifting about the whole pitch. He’ll still track back for interesting defence plays but most of the time he sticks by Miro, carrying on a one-sided conversation with ease borne of long practice. Miro tries not to react too much, because the last thing he needs is some camera picking up on his face while he’s seemingly talking to thin air, but it’s difficult because Thomas is _funny,_ terribly so, and maintaining a blank face while constant snarky commentary regarding the other team, the state of play, and the general politics of the sport is being poured into his ear is truly a feat. And Thomas talks a _lot_. He says more in ten minutes than Miro often does in thirty.

He also likes to give tactical advice, suggesting little things here and there from just over Miro’s shoulder, keeping up with him at every turn. It’s not bad, and he’s only caught Miro off guard once or twice in the beginning when he was still getting used to the whole thing. Thomas usually keeps quiet during tricky plays, for which Miro is grateful. He needs all his attention to be on the movement of the ball and the other players, and not on the gangly, translucent spectre floating a few inches off the ground.

Not that he gives poor advice: often Miro will position himself where Thomas suggests, because Thomas knows what he’s talking about when it comes to football. But Thomas also sometimes will throw out seemingly nonsensical suggestions, telling Miro to wander into spaces that don’t seem to have any bearing on the current play, or pointing out “you could have scored just there” when Miro is in impossible locations. It’s as if Thomas lives about half his life in a strange alternate version of football where things don’t make a lot of sense to the normal brain.

 

Regardless, he likes Thomas. He’s interesting and sharp, and Miro finds himself valuing his opinion more and more as time passes. Mostly they talk about football but Thomas will sometimes accompany him on errands around the city, offering advice on everything from what kind of bicycle Miro should buy to which brand of müsli is appropriate for each day of the week. But he claims that leaving the Allianz makes him feel tired, so these outside trips are infrequent.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Miro objects when Thomas explains. “You didn’t even start out at the Allianz, you were at the Olympiastadion for decades before the team moved here.”

Thomas just shrugs. “I think it’s wherever the club is, really,” he says thoughtfully. “And not the physical club like the players or the stadium or whatever, but- the _club_ , y’know?”

Miro doesn’t, not really, but he’s given up trying to understand the mechanics of being a ghost. Whatever the reason, Thomas sometimes goes out but he prefers to stay hanging around, presumably spending the time when the stadium is dark and empty by zooming up and down the halls and kicking about loose footballs with whatever otherworldly influence it is that allows him to interact with the living world; a benevolent Bavarian poltergeist.

 

Usually after matches, Miro waits until the rest of the team has filtered out of the dressing room, lingering behind so he can talk to Thomas.

The season is winding down to a close with Bayern sitting at the top of the table, and despite the promise of a treble glittering on the horizon, the whisper of the World Cup had been steadily growing louder. So when Thomas begins to wrap up his comprehensive analysis of how the rest of the season _should_ go, the conversation turns to the prospects of Germany.

“Come with us,” Miro says impulsively, in the middle of one of Thomas’ long diatribes on the strengths and weaknesses of the German midfield.

Thomas tilts his head, confused. “What?”

“Come with us to South Africa. To the Cup.” The idea builds momentum in his head. “You could see the national team play, you could watch the tournament...” _You could be with me,_ he doesn’t say. But he thinks it. He plays matches without Thomas of course, away games and international friendlies, a qualifier here and there...but at the end of the day nothing really compared to playing in the World Cup. He realises just how much he’s become accustomed to Thomas over his shoulder, cheerfully ruthless and fiercely determined. He wants Thomas with him in South Africa.

But Thomas is shaking his head. “I can’t. Sorry Miro but I, I can’t.”

“Why not?” Miro pushes. “You might be unused to it but you _can_ leave the Allianz, Thomas, I know that. You come to Säbener Straβe all the time. You can move around the city. And you even went with us to Nürnberg for that cup tie. You’re not... _bound_ to the stadium.” It’s still strange to think about these things, even after nearly three years. Thomas is a ghost, and the rules of how the whole situation works are still mostly mystery.

“Yeah, but I didn’t even know that I could go as far as Nürnberg,” Thomas argues. “And it was weird. I felt like I was trying to hold myself together. I don’t know if I’d make it to South Africa. Like I said, I think I’m haunting Bayern- it might not work at all for the national team.”

“But you could try.”

Thomas frowns, brows lowered but eyes wide underneath, the way he looks when he’s displeased. “Why are you pushing this? Do you _want_ me to risk, oh I dunno, disintegrating or vanishing forever or something?”

“Of course not,” Miro says patiently, “I just want you to come with me to the World Cup. And I know _you_ want to come. You got the see parts of the last one but the last final you saw was in 1974 and I know for a fact that you miss it.” He smiles hopefully at Thomas. “Anyway, it’s not like you to be afraid of something.”

Thomas shrugs defensively. “I don’t know a lot about how I can travel, or for how long.” His brow is still furrowed but now the annoyance is ebbing, replaced by gloominess. He’s probably thinking about how long ago 1974 was. “And I’ll have you know I’ve watched the cups on television, so.”

Miro lets the subject drop.

 

 

 

Germany doesn’t win in South Africa. Miro comes home with another bronze medal to add to his growing collection of not-quite-good-enoughs, and the first place he goes is Säbener Straβe, where he knows Thomas will be waiting. Thomas has a good understanding like that, predicting what other people are going to do. He would have made a spectacular player, Miro thinks, seeing Thomas’ ghostly wave from across the field as he trudges over. As a winger maybe, or a false nine. Or something a bit of both and not quite either, with a splash of utter unpredictability thrown in for good measure.

 

 

 

“Fourteen goals, though,” Thomas says after a long silence. “Almost there.”

Miro looks over at him. They’re both sitting on the grass, the dying light of the evening filtering the air to reds and purples around them. “You think?”

Thomas grins at him, supremely confident. “I know.”

 

 

 

Fourteen goals perhaps but it’s a different story during the season.

 

“Things aren’t all _that_ bleak, Miro. C’mon.”

Miro sighs. “It’s not going well, Thomas. You’re on the pitch every second that I am, and more. You can see that it’s not going well.”

“But you can fix it,” Thomas urges. “You’ve had a crap season, whatever. Everyone does sometimes. It’s just a part of the game.”

“I’m leaving the club, Thomas. The contract negotiations are already difficult, I’ll just take the opportunity to bow out. It’s a good time. While I’m still getting offers from other clubs.”

“But you don’t _have_ to.”

Miro fixes Thomas with a long look. “I think you know that I do.”

 

They are quiet for a minute before Thomas says, subdued, “I’ll miss you.”

Miro swallows. “I’ll be back in Munich eventually. For games with the national team. Or maybe just to visit.”

“Yeah I guess. But it won’t be the same as seeing you almost every day. I might get lonely.”

“You could always make yourself go solid and talk to somebody else,” Miro suggests, although he knows that doing so always wears Thomas out.

Thomas shrugs. “Sure. Might do. Might just talk to myself a lot, though. At least I know I’m good at it. I’ve had practice.” He grins, weakly. A dim imitation of his usual kilowatt smile.

 

 

 

Miro transfers that summer, a year after losing his third World Cup, and he doesn’t see Thomas for a long time after that.

 

 

 

At Lazio, he struggles between missing Thomas and being suddenly back at the top of his game, where he knows he belongs. Some kind of stopper that had been bottling him up at Bayern for the past season is pulled loose, and the game comes back. He loves it in Italy, and he loves playing well, and between the two, he can distract himself from the empty spaces where Thomas used to be, hanging over his shoulder dispensing wit and almost-wisdom.

 

 

 

The European Championship comes and goes and Miro doesn’t see Thomas. He’s getting older, though, and the edge of retirement is creeping up on him. He wants to talk about it with Thomas, wants his opinion. The season begins anew in Italy and barely three weeks later the ball is in the back of the net and the back of his hand is stinging. He can hear Thomas’ voice in his head, clear as ever despite the year it’s been since he last heard it; _you can score goals in lots of ways. You can trip as much as you need to just so long as the ball ends up over the line_ \- and he smiles a bit to himself because were Thomas actually there he probably would have shrugged and thumbed his nose at the protesting Napoli players.

Miro smiles to himself, and makes a beeline for the referee. He doesn’t always need to take Thomas’ advice.

 

 

 

The national team plays a friendly in Munich and Thomas is there, hanging about in the tunnel. Miro had arrived early with the hopes of seeing him, and he’d been expecting to, but there’s still a bit of a lump in his throat and he stops dead in the hallway. Thomas gives him a small wave. “Hi.”

“Thomas.” Miro feels a bit helpless. He hadn’t realised just how much he’d missed Thomas until suddenly faced with the familiar toothy grin and crinkly eyes. “You’re here.”

“I wasn’t about to miss it, was I?” Thomas says, a bit too honestly to be casual. “Not with the World Cup so close and all.”

Miro nods and smiles. “It’s good to see you.”

Thomas grins. “Of course it is! And I’m sure you’re eager to hear about _everything_ that I’ve thought about since I last saw you.” He winks. “Believe me, it’s a lot. Okay, so here’s the deal with the Champions League-”

It’s almost like being back to normal, Miro thinks to himself, letting Thomas’ voice take its rightful place in the ambience of his life. If one could consider a chatty, Bayern Munich-supporting ghost normal. He’d missed this.

 

 

 

On the plane to Brazil, Miro keeps getting the sensation that he’s being watched.

It’s unusual for him. He’s spent most of his life studiously avoiding the kind of spotlight that gravitates towards most professional athletes, and now he’s on a plane with no one about but his own team mates and he feels under a microscope.

He turns around a few times but there’s never anyone looking, the team all engaged in reading books or on phones, sleeping or in quiet conversations amongst themselves.

He’s talking to Philipp as they disembark, stepping out into the warm Brazilian air, and Miro swears that he sees Thomas up ahead, walking with the rest of the team. He blinks and Thomas isn’t there anymore but-

Miro shakes his head a few times as if to clear it, and wonders if the nerves are getting to him.

 

Except not, because he’s only just dropped his suitcase in his hotel room when Thomas is stepping through the door.

 _Through_ the door. The closed door. Miro gapes. Thomas. Thomas here, in Brazil. Thomas is here in Brazil. Hovering a centimetre off the ground and as real as he ever is.

“I wanted to make it a surprise,” Thomas says, a bit sheepishly. “Sorry I didn’t tell you. But I overheard Philipp talking on the phone to Claudia a bit before the season ended, about how, well. It’s going to be his last cup- and your last cup.

“I felt bad, y’know. That I didn’t come to South Africa. And I figured- what the hell. There’re enough Bayern players on the team to carry me over, and actually, what’s the worst that could happen? I mean, I am already dead.”

 “Thomas,” Miro says seriously, “Make yourself tangible for a minute, please.”

Thomas twists an eyebrow in confusion. “How come?”

“I want to hug you right about now.”

Thomas grins widely, and settles his feet on the ground, losing his translucency as he manifests on the material plane. “Miro, it would be my pleasure to be hugged by you.”

He doesn’t wait, ducking forward to loop his arms around Miro and resting his head against his shoulder with a sigh of contentment.

“I’m glad you’re here, Thomas.” Miro tells him, holding Thomas tightly, enjoying the feel of him under his fingers. The ridges of Thomas’ spine, the breadth of his narrow shoulders, the messy curls of his hair tickling against Miro’s cheek.

“Well,” Thomas says happily, “it’s just not really the same watching on the television, is it?”

The ball is at his feet and then in the back of net, one-two, so easy. His first goal of the tournament, his fifteenth overall. Tied. He is tied with Ronaldo. The stadium is roaring in his ears and Thomas is yelling, “Do the flip!” and Miro is so caught up in the moment that he complies.

 

Afterwards, Thomas frowns at him. “Don’t do the flip anymore,” he scolds, as if he hadn’t been the one egging Miro on. “You might break your back and then where would we be, huh?”

Miro just rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. There’s a warm breeze through the window, out from over the blue water. Germany is in Brazil and he’s tied the record for World Cup goals and Thomas is with him.

The world seems very perfect for Miroslav Klose.

 

 

His first effort is deflected and Miro doesn’t even have time to see his lost chance at making history pass before his eyes because the ball is back at his feet and this time, this time, he scores. He doesn’t know where Thomas is, he doesn’t know where _anyone_ is, only that he’s running a few feet to slide, unsure how to feel, unsure if any of it is _real,_ they are 2-nil up in twenty minutes and Philipp is hugging him and Sami is yelling delightedly and there’s Thomas, there’s Thomas grinning widely, all of his too-many teeth on display and Miro can only smile dazedly back as Thomas winks at him, and pats his own chest proudly, where the badge might be if he were playing.

 

 

 

The team celebrates that night. They can’t _not_ celebrate, not when they’ve just pulled off a historic win of such proportions. Even Jogi’s ‘this is only the semi-finals, we’re not there yet, don’t lose your heads’ speech had been distinctly more cheerful than it might have been. There’s no universe in which they all just file quietly back to their respective rooms to sleep.

But they aren’t idiots either. At least, not when the stakes are the actual World Cup trophy. So Lukas and Bastian get their hands on a karaoke machine somehow (Miro doesn’t want to ask how, he’s known them long enough that the answer can’t be anything good) and Kevin for some unknown reason has brought paper streamers in his suitcase and they string up some lights outside Per’s team house and it’s not until Christoph is hassled in front of the microphone to sing a tipsy rendition of _Ai Se Eu Te Pego_ (which he pulls off with a lot of blushing and a truly horrific mangling of the Portuguese language) that Miro decides, it’s time for him to beg off for the night.

He goes back to his room to see Thomas perched on the railing outside on the balcony. Miro opens the door and steps out to join him in the calm night air.

“Brazil is beautiful,” Thomas says, looking out over the water in awe. “I’ve never seen the ocean before but I guarantee the Nordsee looks _nothing_ like this.”

“You’ve never seen the ocean?”

“Nah, stayed mostly around Munich my whole life. And I didn’t know I could travel afterwards, until now.” He looks at Miro, eyes shining. “Thank you.”

Miro smiles, leaning in closer against the railing. It’s impossible not to when Thomas is beaming at him like that. “For what?”

“For telling me to come with you.” The stars that Miro can see through Thomas’ forehead wink out as he settles into solidity. He reaches over and puts a tentative hand on top of Miro’s. “From barely getting out of Munich to Brazil. It’s a jump.”

“I knew you could make it, though.” Miro says, quietly, sincerely, letting go of the railing and turning his hand over so Thomas’ rests inside his palm. He squeezes gently and Thomas squeezes back.

They stay like that for a while, next to each other, hands clasped. Thomas doesn’t even need to say anything. Everything is already perfectly understood.

 

 

 

Thomas follows him off the pitch and Miro doesn’t speak until he’s at the bench and certain that the cameras have finished following him. He imagines the commentators far away, what they might be saying. _Miroslav Klose steps off the pitch for the last time in the Germany jersey. Miroslav Klose ends his career, still to be seen if he can go home for the last time with that elusive gold medal. Top World Cup scorer but can he finish it? Is he going to lose his second final?_

He lets himself be fussed over by his team mates for a minute before they turn back to following the movements on the pitch with intent gazes, not wanting to miss a second.

“Get back on the pitch,” Miro says out of the corner of his mouth, softly. He knows Thomas can hear him, even over the increasingly frantic roar of the crowd.

Thomas frowns. “I want to sit with you.”

“Thomas, it’s the World Cup final. We’re in the World Cup final.” Miro looks at Thomas with steady eyes. “You came all the way to Brazil, do you really want to sit on the bench with me?”

“I-”

“Get back on the pitch,” Miro says gently. “I want you to be able to tell me about it afterwards. You go follow Mario, okay?”

Thomas searches his eyes for a second and then grins. “Okay. I’ll get you some good live coverage, yeah? Sit tight old man. We’re gonna win this thing, just watch.”

Miro rolls his eyes, trying not to be too obvious about it, though he can’t imagine the cameras being more interested in a man on the bench than in the match still being battled out a few metres away. “You’re far older than me.”

Thomas throws him a mock salute. “What are you saying? I’m twenty-five!” he calls, and dashes back onto the field. Under the brilliant lights of the Maracanã he’s nearly invisible to Miro as he flits over the grass, his form even more desaturated than usual. Miro can imagine him all in white out there, the red stripes across his chest, playing for his country. It’s a suitable image. Thomas Müller for Germany.

He settles back in his seat; his act is over. Now the wait begins.

 

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to wait very long.

 

And then, amidst the screaming and the tears (on both sides, of course, everyone is crying in that stadium that night) and the lights and the gold confetti, no one notices Miro turn to his left and smile into thin air. If they did they would likely have attributed it to the sense of raw emotion that is welling up in the very air, Miroslav Klose smiling at nothing and no one but also smiling at everything.

Sometimes, Miro wonders what he could possibly have done to deserve being haunted by Thomas Müller. But it must have been something good.


End file.
